


for the sake of his body, which is the church

by littlelamblittlelamb



Category: Elite (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Obsession, Post Season 2, Pre-Elite, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:46:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21658492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelamblittlelamb/pseuds/littlelamblittlelamb
Summary: Sometimes Polo dreamed that he had died in that swimming pool, but Polo’s gods roamed the Earth, not the heavens, so he felt compelled to stay.To worship Guzmán had always been to suffer.
Relationships: Polo/Guzmán Nunier
Comments: 13
Kudos: 66





	for the sake of his body, which is the church

_Why do you let Guzmán_ _push_ _you around?_

Polo remembered sitting in the backseat of the car as his mothers lamented the tainted influence of ‘that Guzmán boy’.

_He gets you in trouble, and what? He’s wicked and charms the teachers the very next day._

That, Polo knew, was true enough. Guzmán had a way of leading him and Ander into mischief, and Ander would get out of detentions in the name of tennis training, and Guzmán could get away with anything with that cocky smile of his. Polo would be left without an excuse or dazzling charm.

* * *

“You look at me,” Guzmán said, almost as an accusation. They sat in Guzmán’s bedroom, controllers cast aside as they considered commencing another round.

Polo shrugged uneasily. “Sorry.”

“You do, though. You know, my family thinks maybe you’re in love with me. I thought that was unfair – you having two mums doesn’t mean you have to be gay,” Guzmán said. Guzmán had a way of trying to express his benevolent tolerance and coming off a bit of a dick.

“Right.”

“But they’re not wrong. You _do_ look at me.” Guzmán, a god. Of course Polo looked at him. People like him and Carla were there to be looked at and loved. People like Polo were there to love them.

“I can stop,” Polo mumbled, though that was probably a lie.

“What do you look at?” Guzmán asked. Guzmán was all sharp toothed smiles, but Polo found him reluctant to bite. He always looked like he might, though.

“Probably what girls look at,” Polo whispered. He felt a lick of panic in his veins – _Please, please not now._ Polo sometimes cried and couldn’t breathe, and his mums made him see doctors about it, but he had never fallen to pieces in front of Guzmán.

“Yeah?”

“You’re a good looking guy. I like girls too. Both. It’s nothing to worry about.” Polo picked up his controller and began scrolling through the menu. After a time, Guzmán picked up his own controller, before knocking gently into Polo’s shoulder.

“I wasn’t worried, just so you know.” 

Polo felt himself flush, and Guzmán, who was always a bit too intense, pulled him into a tight embrace.

* * *

Polo knew they were making an issue of alcohol far too young – Ander and Guzmán particularly drank to mask their sadness. Polo thought they were crazy. Ander and Guzmán were beautiful and marvelous people – they were loved. Polo was messed up and nervy and quiet and needed liquid courage simply because he needed any courage he could get. After Pablo and Marina, Guzmán needed comfort and Polo was almost glad Ander threw himself doubly into tennis.

“Your mums don’t mind?” Guzmán slurred, looking a touch guilty. Guzmán’s household was in chaos, and Polo’s house had become an escape.

“People say that two mums’ll be too soft on a kid. Not true, except having _my_ two mums… they’d let me get away with murder.” Polo clapped Guzmán on the back. “Any time.”

“You’re a good friend, Polo,” Guzmán murmured.

“Whatever you need,” Polo promised.

Guzmán leaned heavily against Polo and grinned. “You still look at me?”

“Sorry.”

“It was a question, Polo.”

“Then I guess that was an answer.” Polo imagined the air would be sucked out of the room – to say something so melodramatic, a confession, more or less – but Guzmán was drunk and warm and pleased, and he loved Polo, but not as Polo craved, and it was life as usual.

“I like this,” Guzmán murmured. They lied side by side in Polo’s bed, and Guzmán held him close, like he wouldn’t do if Ander was there. “It’s not all about sex with Lu. Sometimes I like this.” At this, Guzmán leaned up on his elbows and bared his teeth. “You know?”

Polo understood that was a tentative invitation. Guzmán was drunk and pliable and superficially happy and miserable to his core, and letting Polo kiss him or stroke him or suck him would feel good and awful, and Polo almost did it. Polo almost took advantage of Guzmán. His kneejerk response was to cling to Guzmán, prove himself skilled and useful if not worthy. But if he surrendered, he risked losing him.

“I understand,” Polo murmured. “You tired?”

Guzmán stared at him a while, before nodding. “Yeah. How boring – drinking and getting drowsy.”

Polo only shrugged, before removing Guzmán’s shoes and shirt and tucking him in. “I’ll be here when you wake, just shout.”

“You’re a good friend, Polo,” Guzmán said again.

* * *

A post Marina world - a world in which everyone knew Polo was guilty of her murder. Sometimes Polo dreamed that he had died in that swimming pool, but Polo’s gods roamed the Earth, not the heavens, so he felt compelled to stay. 

“You still look at me,” Guzmán snarled in the lockerroom. These days, Polo often changed in the stalls. Today was a mistake. He had hoped to use the pool, but Guzmán used the pool - it was his domain - and maybe Polo was an idiot; maybe he forgot, maybe he miscalculated. Maybe he had come to worship. 

“I’m sorry,” Polo mumbled. He should run away - down to his swim briefs, he was too bare and vulnerable. 

“Are you,” Guzmán snapped. It wasn’t a question, because Guzmán didn’t care about the answer. It didn’t matter that Polo was sorry. Polo nodded just the same. “Ander said you tried to kill yourself in the pool.”

That, Polo thought, probably _was_ a question. 

“Yes. It didn’t work out,” Polo said impotently. 

“Shame.”

Polo nodded. He was about to make another mistake. “I really am sorry,” he said, soft as prayer. 

“Shut the fuck up, Polo. If you had any decency you’d be in prison - or at least at another fucking school.” Those teeth - Guzmán bared them savagely, and Polo thought he could do it. Push just a bit harder, make him bite. 

“I can’t do that. I miss being your friend, Guzmán.”

That did it. Guzmán lunged at him and pounded his fists into Polo’s jaw, his chest, his guts; shoved him until he fell back against the lockers, winded, certain he would bruise and ache for days. Polo whimpered from pain and humiliation and bliss. 

“You’re sick,” Guzmán spat, but he pushed Polo again into the lockers, and Polo was grateful for the touch - Guzmán’s hands shoving and beating and pressing into his bare flesh. “You know that?”

_Why do you let Guzmán push you around?_

To be touched by a god...

“Yeah,” Polo murmured, his body burning, aching and purified where Guzmán had touched him. “Yeah, I’m sick.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make my whole week :)


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